Evidence of Things Not Seen: (Parish & Richards 18), Page 2

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s a glaciologist.’

  ‘Of course he is.’

  ‘Glaciology is a branch of geology that studies the nature, distribution and movement of glaciers and their effects on the earth’s topography, which I’m sure you’ll agree is at the top of every woman’s shopping list with the current focus on global warming and reducing the human environmental footprint.’

  ‘You think you’re so smart . . .’

  ‘That’s because I am, DI Blake. So, I’d say that the perpetrator was in the house for about eighteen hours, during which time he murdered and painted Mrs Tyndall, and he also consumed at least two meals . . .’

  ‘Meals?’

  ‘Painting women’s bodies is obviously hungry work.’

  ‘Forced entry?’

  ‘No. She must have let him in, or he had a key.’

  ‘Fingerprints? DNA? Signed confession?’

  ‘Too early to say.’

  ‘CCTV?’

  ‘Yes . . . Or should I say that there was a CCTV system operating – eight cameras, a computer recording system, battery back-up in case the power was cut off . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘The hard disc drive was removed from the computer.’

  ‘So we have nothing?’

  ‘No. All past recordings were stored on the disc drive.’

  ‘That’s not very clever.’

  ‘It’s a very good system . . . as long as the attackers don’t get inside your house.’

  ‘Then it becomes useless?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Nobody?’

  ‘An anonymous phone call was received, an officer checked it out, discovered the body and called it in.’

  ‘I thought you said nobody found the body.’

  ‘They didn’t.’

  ‘I see. Anything else?’

  ‘No. During his time in the house the killer limited himself to the kitchen, the bedroom and moving between the two rooms.’

  ‘You’ll let us know if you trip over any forensic evidence that might help us?’

  ‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’

  Xena’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘I suppose we’d better go up and see the painted lady then.’

  ‘Third door on the left,’ Di threw over her shoulder as she turned and headed along the hallway towards the rear of the house.

  Xena led the way up the stairs.

  ‘It’d be much better if you didn’t wind her up every time,’ Stick said from behind her.

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Well, for me.’

  ‘You don’t count. How else would I fill up my days?’

  ‘By being nice to people.’

  ‘Not that old potato again?’

  ‘The potato is valid.’

  ‘What would happen if I started being nice to people?’

  ‘They’d respond in kind.’

  ‘They’d fall about laughing. They’d think I had no balls like you and Chief Nibbles.’

  The master bedroom was enormous. It included a walk-in wardrobe and en suite bathroom with a top-of-the-range Jacuzzi. The bed was an oak four-poster, the carpet a deep-pile white and the decor tasteful yet understated. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the painted Mrs Tyndall lying dead on a white sheet covering the bed.

  Doc Paine was sitting in a chair with her arms and legs crossed.

  Xena stared at her. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you. My assistant – Maurice – has taken a series of photographs, but I thought it prudent to delay any physical examination until you arrived. I wanted you to see what the killer had done to her before I began taking samples and moving the body about.’

  Xena and Stick walked round the bed looking at the astounding artwork on Mrs Tyndall.

  ‘It’s brilliant,’ Stick said.

  Xena’s eyes creased up. ‘We’re here because a woman has been murdered, not to admire the killer’s skill in decorating his victim.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s called body painting,’ Doc Paine said.

  The right half of the woman’s face and body was painted as a good clown, and the left half as an evil clown. The right side of her hair was dyed the seven colours of the rainbow, the left side of her head was shaved and painted as if the skin and skull had been removed and all that remained was the bloody brains. The effect was both beautiful and gruesome. It was definitely a work of art, but at the cost of a woman’s life.

  ‘Tell me that’s a red contact lens in her left eye, Doc?’ Stick said.

  ‘I wish I could, DS Gilbert. Unfortunately, the killer removed the eyeball and replaced it with a prosthetic one.’ She picked up one of her stainless steel instruments and tapped the eyeball to produce a dull clunky sound. ‘It’s plastic, and they don’t come cheap either – typically, four to five thousand pounds. I guess he did that to create the effect he wanted. It could be a possible lead though. If it has a serial number on it, we might be able to trace where it came from and who purchased it.’

  ‘What’s it all for, Doc?’ Xena said. ‘I mean, why spend most of the day in a house where you’ve just murdered a woman to paint her body?’

  ‘I might just be able to help you with that. As you know, we usually check the crime scene with black light, which is commonly called ultraviolet light, for biological substances such as blood and urine . . .’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘Switch the lights off, Maurice,’ Doc Paine said to her assistant. ‘And shine the UV light over the body.’

  Maurice did as he was instructed. Soon they were standing in the pitch black until the black light came on, and then they could see the hidden light on the corpse’s body.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Xena said.

  ‘It’s fluorescent paint,’ Doc Paine explained, stating the obvious. ‘Not only has he created a work of art, but he’s used it to send you a message.’

  There were a series of numbers painted in different places on the body from head to the toes:

  01000111

  01001111

  01001100

  01001100

  01001111

  01010111

  01001101

  01000101

  ‘And you’re in luck,’ Maurice said. ‘One of my hobbies is computer programming and that’s binary code.’

  Xena turned to stare at him. ‘Oh?’

  ‘The zeros and ones represent instructions to the computer. Those particular instructions tell the computer to display the alphabet in upper case on the screen.’

  ‘The complete alphabet?’ Stick said.

  Maurice grunted. ‘No, no. Those lines of binary code represent: FOLLOW ME.’

  ‘Follow me?’ Xena repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Follow him where?’

  Maurice switched the lights back on.

  ‘Fuck!’ Xena said, screwing up her eyes. ‘You could have warned us.’

  Maurice shrugged. ‘Oops!’

  ‘The painting isn’t only on the front of her body,’ Doc Paine said. She signalled to Maurice and between them they carefully shifted the corpse over onto its side to reveal the reverse of the conjoined clown.

  While Doc Paine held the body at an angle, Maurice turned the lights off again and switched on the UV light. At either end of a squiggly line down her spine were more binary code sequences:

  01010011

  01010100

  01000001

  01010010

  01010100

  01000101

  01001110

  01000011

  ‘START and END,’ Maurice said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘We’ve done most of the work for you,’ Doc Paine said. ‘So we thought we’d leave you to . . .’

  ‘. . . Do all the hard work?’ Xena finished for her.

  ‘Exactly. Our best guess is that it possibly relates to a map.’

  ‘A ma
p?’

  ‘START and END points on a map.’

  ‘Which map?’

  ‘That’s for you to find out, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Of course, I won’t be able to provide you with an exact replica of the line until I transport the body back to the mortuary. And moving the body is a lot more complicated than usual. Although we’ve taken photographs and a video recording, we don’t want to cause any unnecessary damage to the body painting until we’ve completely examined it because we could destroy evidence that isn’t immediately apparent. So you’ll have to be a little bit patient, DI Blake.’

  ‘Patience and I aren’t on speaking terms at the moment.’

  ‘I know, that’s why I’m telling you now. I’m guessing I might have completed the post mortem by midday tomorrow, but if I discover anything else while I’m conducting my examination I’ll contact you.’

  ‘I can live with that. What about time of death?’

  ‘Both time and cause of death are unclear at the moment. But if I had my arm twisted I’d say that she’s been dead for between twelve and eighteen hours. As for cause of death, I’m guessing he didn’t want to damage his human canvas, so a drug of some kind, but what . . . ?’ She shrugged.

  ‘I have a question,’ Stick said.

  Xena stared at him. ‘What is it, Stick for brains?’

  ‘I know the killer has sent us a message in binary code and probably the map line as well, but why has he painted her as two halves of a clown, which appear to represent good and evil?’

  ‘It’s a dichotomy,’ Doc Paine said. ‘Two sides of the same coin, but contradictory and mutually exclusive.’

  ‘How does that help us?’ Xena queried.

  ‘I think the painting is a message as well,’ Stick suggested.

  Xena pulled a face. ‘Such as?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Great. Well, while you’re trying to figure out the nature of the universe numpty, we have work to do.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘What do you think the painted lady case is all about?’

  ‘I think it’s about you not being able to accept when you’ve lost, Richards. The painted lady case is not our case, it never has been our case and it never will be our case. That particular case has passed us by and it now belongs to DI Blake and DS Gilbert.’

  ‘You could have . . .’

  ‘I could have done a lot of things, but today I decided not to fight with DI Blake in front of the new DCI.’

  ‘Yes, that was probably a good decision.’

  ‘I’m glad you approve. Now, let’s focus on the case of the dead ten year-old boy we’ve been given, shall we?’

  ‘Do you want me to drive?’ she said as they approached the car.

  His eyes and mouth opened wide as if he was modelling for a scream mask. ‘My new car? Are you out of your tiny mind?’

  Richards laughed. ‘You’re the one who’s crazy. It’s a cheap second-hand Mazda.’

  ‘It can hear you, you know.’

  ‘With its hearing module?’

  ‘The very same.’ He passed her the keys. ‘Any damage you cause will come out of your inheritance.’

  They climbed into the car.

  ‘Inheritance! You haven’t got anything to leave me.’

  ‘A minor point.’

  ‘Where are we going then?’

  He took the piece of paper DCI Nibley had passed to him out of his jacket pocket and read what was written on it. ‘Adam Weeks. He was found by a jogger early this morning on a piece of waste ground at the north edge of Nazeing Golf Course. He lives at 44 Slipe Lane in Broxbourne, and was reported missing on Friday evening at ten-thirty by his mother.’

  She started the car, reversed up and headed out of the car park. ‘I don’t understand how parents can lose their children. I mean, what was he doing out on Friday evening anyway?’

  ‘I expect we’ll find out when we go and see the mother with the terrible news that her son is dead.’

  ‘At ten years old he should have been in bed. If I had a child . . . Although there’s not much chance of that when I don’t even have a boyfriend.’

  ‘How’s the online dating going?’

  ‘How do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘Desperate . . . Desperate men and desperate women trying to find desperate partners, so that they’re not living desperate lives.’

  He turned to stare at her. ‘Like you?’

  ‘Exactly like me. I’m going to die a desperate old spinster.’

  ‘So, you’re giving up?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t want to go out with someone who feels sorry for me because I can’t get a man. I want to find someone who doesn’t know I’m desperate.’

  ‘The right one will come along when you’re least expecting it.’

  ‘You don’t believe that.’

  ‘Of course I do. That’s what happens in real life. It’s what happened to me and your mother. A bus doesn’t come along for absolutely ages. You think the bus company have re-routed the service to Land’s End. Then, three buses arrive at the same time. That’s what’ll happen, you wait and see.’

  ‘I’m not waiting for a bus.’

  ‘The analogy is the same.’

  ‘You’re just trying to make me feel better.’

  ‘Is it working?’

  ‘No.’

  They followed the A1170 to Broxbourne, along Nazeing New Road through the Lea Valley Park and Lower Nazeing and onto Hoe Lane, which led them to the north edge of Nazeing Golf Course.

  After parking up, they swapped shoes for wellies from out of the boot of the car. The ground was wet and muddy after two months of rain, snow and constant weather warnings.

  As he was pulling the wellies on he noticed something. ‘There’s mud splashes on the side of my car.’

  ‘I think it’s something to do with the weather, you know.’

  His lip curled up. ‘You can give her a good wash and polish when we get home.’

  Richards laughed. ‘Her?’

  ‘Of course – her name is . . .’

  ‘You’ve named it?’

  ‘I’ve named “her”. She’s called Miranda.’

  ‘You’re the craziest person I know.’

  ‘Besides yourself.’

  ‘I’ll drive it through the car wash if you give me the money.’

  ‘Stop trying to squander your inheritance before it’s due.’

  All the usual suspects were there: the press, the ambulance-chasers, the inexplicably curious and the entrepreneurs who saw a gilt-edged opportunity to make a few quid. Circling overhead were two helicopters taking aerial views of the crime scene and providing a running commentary of nothing at all with a generous helping of speculation and conjecture, which was being beamed all around the world via communication satellites to satisfy the desire for instant news.

  He ignored the questions from the press, barged his way through the crowd to reach the crime scene tape and ducked under it.

  They followed the path to a copse with a hollow that resembled a spinney. There were bike tracks up and down, round and round, and in-between the trees and bushes as if children on BMX and mountain bikes used it regularly for Olympic training purposes.

  The blue forensic tent had already been set up near the bottom of the spinney, and white-suited forensic officers were moving in and out of the opening like wraiths at a wake.

  ‘I’m not looking forward to this,’ Richards said, as they began putting on the forensic paraphernalia.

  ‘You can stay out here, if you want to?’

  ‘No. I have to go in. I won’t be a proper detective if I can’t look at dead children.’

  ‘Be objective, dispassionate and unemotional then.’

  ‘Is that your best advice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Toadstone was waiting for them. ‘Hello, Sir.’

  ‘Hello, Toadstone.’ He looked past
him to the naked body of ten year-old Adam Weeks. ‘There is no footprint too small that cannot leave an imprint in this world.’

  Toadstone nodded, but said nothing.

  Doc Riley was bending over the body. ‘Hello, you two.’

  ‘Hi, Doc,’ Richards said.

  Parish knelt down on one knee on the aluminium treadplate to get a closer look. ‘What have we got, Doc?’

  ‘He disappeared on Friday evening at around nine o’clock, and was reported missing by his mother at ten-thirty. Search parties found nothing. This is quite a distance from his home. The body temperature is the same as the ambient temperature, and there’s still traces in the larger muscles of rigor mortis, so it’s my best guess he’s been dead for at least twenty-four hours. That means the killer kept him alive, but restrained him for the first twenty-four hours . . .’ She pointed to the dark red livid marks on the boy’s wrists, ankles and around his neck. ‘During which time he was badly beaten and sexually abused.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Richards said under her breath.

  Doc Riley glanced up. ‘I concur, Detective. But there was more than one bastard, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘Okay, let’s stay objective,’ Parish said.

  ‘There’s not much more to tell you until I carry out the post mortem. Except . . . you might be interested in this . . .’ She lifted up the boy’s top lip to reveal a small black tattoo of a three-link chain on the inside of the lip.

  ‘Do you know what it means?’ Parish said.

  ‘No. In all my years of doing this job I’ve never seen a tattoo located there on a small child – very strange. And although it’s meaning might be interesting, what’s more interesting is that it wasn’t put there in the last forty-eight hours – it’s been there for a long time.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to run some tests, but I’d say certainly longer than a year.’

  ‘What about you, Toadstone,’ Parish said. ‘Do you know what a three-link chain signifies?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s not one of the paedophile symbols, is it?’ Richards said.

  She was referring to the logos identified and disseminated by the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) Cyber Division in January 2007 that all police officers were now required to become familiar with: